I’m grieving for Lucie Brock-Broido, the poet who died yesterday. We grew up across a street from each other in Pittsburgh. It was a cobblestone lane, really, enchanted like much of her poetry. From her teenage years, she was always the poetess, her long golden tresses following adoringly behind her. In another image, she carried her own peacock’s tail. She cultivated mystery and dreamy depth.
Her step-father, Jerry Greenwald, owned a big carpet company and her mother, Ginger, used her actor training to make breathy TV commercials. In those days, Lucie wrote about a blue glass vase sitting on the side of my mother’s bath, eliciting some wry comments. No one ever understands artists! Lucie went on to write magnificent series of poems, lead the Columbia U writing program, and otherwise rise as she knew she would. Sympathies to Melissa and Julie.